


Five Hole Exploration

by Nadler



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Fisting, Anal Sex, Goalies, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-19 10:42:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14872233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nadler/pseuds/Nadler
Summary: Subtitle: the goalie porn collection





	1. Ilya Bryzgalov & Evgeny Kuznetsov, Vegas, 2018

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This is entirely the fault of this video [ here. They admit it.](https://twitter.com/PlayersTribune/status/1003653257259110401) So clearly, they're first. 
> 
> Also, the Caps did the thing. )
> 
>  

Ilya does know how Kuzya likes to explore the five hole. He also lets him know where he's staying after he finishes running around Caps practice. He needs to head to Vegas's practice and mingle with the fans before he gets back for the day, and then he'll hand over the footage to his editor. Kuzya has his number and his room. 

Vegas is hot and sweaty, and so Ilya takes another shower to attempt to not sweat like a hose, and he wonders if he should do something else if Kuzya doesn't show up. There's always gambling. This is Vegas. He could probably find something to do or a magic show to watch. 

His phone buzzes, so that's for another night. 

 

Evgeny Kuznetsov is at Ilya's door, and he isn't even dressed too badly. Maybe Ilya should be impressed, but honestly, that's not what matters. Kuzya's presentable, but not the kind of dressed up a club requires, and he looks him up and down, and says, "Well, I feel overdressed."

"A public street is not my room; you'll get arrested for indecent exposure," Ilya says, idly. "Close the door." 

Ilya lays back on the bed. It's feathery and soft and he almost sinks into it. The best part of retirement is the soft beds. 

"No hellos, then?" Kuzya sounds amused, but Ilya just spreads his legs further apart. His dick is only somewhat aware of what's happening, but it'll get with the program later, but his five hole is the main player today. 

"I saw you today. You can kiss it hello, if you want, " Ilya says, and it's not so much a suggestion as a prediction, considering Kuzya chuckles and gets in between Ilya's legs. He nuzzles against Ilya's thigh, and while Ilya smells perfectly manly, it's slow torture when it takes forever for Kuzya's mouth to even reach near Ilya's hole. 

He breathes over it, and his fingers play with the skin between it and his balls, and it's maddening how calmly Kuzya does this while Ilya complains with dignity. 

"You lost down there?" Ilya chirps.

It pushes him to do something, so it works. Kuzya presses a kiss to Ilya's hole, and the starts licking over it, then finding a small part to nip at with the barest hint of teeth. Ilya's thighs tighten involuntarily, but it wasn't like Kuzya was going anywhere. He moans around Ilya's hole, circles the rim with his tongue. He moves his head, and his beard is scratchy but not wholly unpleasant, but he returns shortly to lave all the attention that mouth can give, and Ilya doesn't bite back any moans. 

"Your five hole's so big," Kuzya laughs, when he pulls back for air. "I don't know where to start." 

"Are you calling me fat?" Ilya asks, feigning annoyance. 

Kuzya pats Ilya's thigh. Ilya lets him go, and he gets the lube, so he shouldn't be annoyed at the answer: "Retirement looks good on you." 

That's about as sincere as they get. 

"Ass, though, that's maybe fat," Kuzya says, back with the lube and settling back into place. He grabs said ass, kneading it a little spreading the cheeks apart to expose Ilya's hole a little more. He licks another wet stripe over it.

Ilya flips him off, half-heartedly, and the snap of the bottle and the cool feeling on his skin make him shiver. 

"How many?" To start, of course, but at least he's a gentleman to ask. 

"You're the explorer," he says. "Shouldn't you know?" 

Kuzya starts with two, wet and cool with lube, just circling around his hole, and when Ilya least expects it, used to the rhythmic sensations of that almost gentle caress, Kuzya shoves them into Ilya's hole, and that gets a startled cry. They slide in to the knuckle easily, and then they slowly push forward until the whole of both fingers are inside. Kuzya moves them, seems hit a spot that is directly connected to Ilya's cock and then mercilessly rubs over that spot over and over again. 

Ilya's sweating by then, but then again, he probably needed another shower after this anyway. 

Another finger, and Ilya hums at the familiar stretch. Kuzya twists and turns his fingers seemingly at random until Ilya is cursing him and his entire family, but that doesn't get him anywhere but fingers just at the edge of his prostate, not enough pressure and not enough _anything_. Ilya bucks back on his hand, and Kuzya is making those little grunts deep in his throat that make him sound a little like a caveman, but Ilya's not going to say anything. 

Well, he says, "Well, don't be stupid, you know where to go." 

"Do I?" and he only takes out his fingers and then works them in again, making even more confunding patterns inside Ilya, and Ilya has to grip his own cock to control himself. Except why need to do that? Ilya just works at his cock, jerking himself off for some relief even as Kuzya is pulling his fingers out and leaving Ilya empty. Ilya finishes over his own hand, and only then does he look up to Kuzya's eyes.

His fingers dive back into Ilya, and he clenches down on them, but they're only there for a few moments until Kuzya's satisfied with something or another. He lines up his cock to Ilya's hole, and Ilya is only huffing, "Well, get on with it." 

Where his fingers could only brush, just barely, his dick drives in deep. It doesn't take long for him to finish, and Ilya makes an embarrassing noise when Kuzya slumps over him, his dick softening. Still, Ilya has to chirp, "I see that one's a sprinter." 

Kuzya grimaces against his shoulder and gingerly pulls out. 

After a few minutes to clean up, Ilya sighs dramatically. "You should go, maybe. Don't want a search party in here." 

"Sasha has ears," Kuzya enunciates, taking deep breaths. "He heard you today. He told me, 'if flirting helps, go for it.' I think he's off to buy another car, anyway. He doesn't want to think too much about it."

"Maybe someone will get married in Vegas and needs you to be the best man?"

Kuzya pats Ilya on the shoulder. "Maybe. But maybe they'll ask you first." He takes a minute, but then he rolls off the bed to go find his pants. 

Ilya props himself up, but Kuzya isn't much to look at, despite being decent with his dick. Ilya wonders how much everyone's afraid to say that the Stanley Cup final is always played by skeletons held together with tape. "Good to see you, though," he says. He doesn't wish luck for the game; no doubt no one will be happy if he does. You just don't do that, and whatever the game is will be the game.

"You too."

Ilya watches him leave, and you know, he whispers, "Good luck" into the room. It's stupid, but it's only a game, so they'll need all the luck they can get.


	2. Kari Lehtonen & Antti Niemi, Dallas, 2018

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Raise your hand if you're surprised. This is the fisting chapter. Didn't you already write a Kari/Nemo fisting fic, nadler? Yes. I did, and here's more, because I can.

It is a not an auspicious thing that one of the first things that Antti smells when he wakes up from a nap is the acrid smell of burning carbon. No smoke alarm is going off, so that's either a good sign or positively fatal. The house hasn't burnt down by the time he reaches the kitchen, so that's a positive. 

"Are you burning eggs?" 

Kari's not the greatest cook, and that's an understatement. Kari shrugs and says that he's better these days, but being one step up from being the teammate that everyone on the team used to come over and cook for is not a proud achievement. He frowns and takes the pan off the heat. 

Near Antti, Kari's phone buzzes on the table. Antti picks it up to stop it rattling against the surface. "Who's texting you?" 

"Reeser's trying to tell me I shouldn't take a week off, maybe?" Kari shrugs. "Maybe Mike? He likes giving me summer advice." 

"It's a list. Embrace the puck. Ice Sight. Mental Fortitude. Explore your five hole," Antti reads. He raises an eyebrow. "Is this new goalie zen I don't know about?" 

Kari frowns, trying to figure out if Antti's just trying to make a joke at his expense, but it really does sound like a goalie coach just told Kari to get laid more. "If that's the title of Mike's new book, tell him that's a bad idea. All of them." 

"Should I tell him your five hole's been plenty explored, too?" Antti keeps a straight face, but just barely. 

Kari doesn't manage, and he stifles his laughter on his lip. 

They throw out the eggs. 

 

It's summer. This conversation was coming; Kari warned him, even. He has no idea about what it means to be a free agent. Kari's used to being wanted, ever the golden child, and this is the first time where he doesn't have a plan at all. 

Antti doesn't even joke that Kari could retire. He doesn't want to, and for his career to look like this, well, it hurts the pride. Antti's only practical advice is, "Leave it to your agent to bring you options. Pick one of them." 

"That's so helpful," Kari says. He frowns, "You didn't wait for options." 

Antti shrugs. "It's a job. I'm not going to learn French." 

Kari frowns, narrows his eyes. This is one of Kari's major flaws, and Antti really can't offer him anything but a "Get out of your head," which isn't helpful, but it at least makes Kari stop thinking about it for three seconds. And, well, "Maybe we'll have a real talk during free agency. It's too early, Kärppä." 

He shrugs. "I don't think I can." 

Antti gives him a look, at least, and honestly, it's summer. It's the time to be outside, if it weren't so hot, and the time to do the things that the season takes away from you. Kari knows them. 

"Your dick isn't that good." 

"You like my hands," Antti says, idly, and a part of him rankles even though Kari likes his dick well enough. It'll stop him thinking too hard for a little while. 

Kari flushes. He can't hide his glance at them, where they rest on the table. "Sure." He swallows, and he says, "We have the time." 

 

There's nothing wrong with a man that knows what he wants, and this, well, this takes time. They're going to ruin the sheets. That's a given, with this. Antti rounds up the lube, and it always seems like an outrageous amount of the stuff, but it's really the only way. 

Kari's already stripped down, and laying on his back. Antti takes a look and, well, all of his hockey pains are healing, if not healed, but that takes something out of a body. That's what summer's also for, to laze and to let everything build up again, ending with pleasant summer bulk. Right now, Kari's still looking a little scraggly, but not enough for Antti to comment about it, just put his fingers over the hollow of Kari's throat, barely brushing the skin, and enough for him to nip at Kari's ear. 

"If I'm naked," Kari huffs. "You should be." 

"You could put a shirt back on," Antti observes, and it is the perfect time to move his hand down and pinch Kari's nipple. But Antti does, in fact, take off his clothes. 

The first couple of fingers are nothing special. It's a good day, and Kari even says, "If I fall asleep, wake me up at the good part." 

"Sure." Antti crooks his fingers inside, and looks at Kari, who's carefully not saying anything, but he's not falling asleep any time soon. He keeps working his fingers in and out, and he pour more lube over his hand; Kari's hole is red and stretched, and Antti can feel him loosening the more he works in circles, in and out and Kari lets out a low curse followed by a moan. He adds another finger, and here's where he feels any real resistance. He gets that in past the first knuckle, and he moves his hand up and down. He's missed Kari, and he's forgotten how much he likes the sound that Kari makes when Antti's up to three knuckles and working in the pinky, and Kari's eyes are wide when he dares to look up, and the way Kari's ass has his fingers is obscene. 

He has to pull out his fingers. Antti's dick is killing him. He hears Kari whimper at the sudden sensation, and if he looks, he knows he can see the ripple of Kari's muscle trying to clench on something that isn't there. Antti squeezes his dick with the lubed hand, and he's almost there, and it's excruciating. 

"Can I just," and Antti's mouth is a little dry. 

"What?" and Kari props himself up on an elbow, looks back at Antti. He's flushed and sweaty and biting his lip. 

"Shit, I'm so close, just let finish," and Antti rubs his thumb over Kari's hole, just so that he knows that Antti isn't giving up, and then he lines up his dick, and lets the head of it against Kari's hole speak for itself. It feels a bit like cheating to say, "I know you can take it. If you can't, there's no way you can take my fist." 

Kari grunts, and then he says, "Your dick's still not that great," as a chirp, but his heart really isn't into it, not when he spreads his legs a little wider, and Antti can see the shit-eating grin on his face. 

"I'll be quick," and Antti's not above saying that. He is really close to the edge, and he wants to fuck Kari with more than just his fingers. 

"How quick?" and Kari laughs. Antti rubs his dick over Kari's hole, and the little sensation when Kari clenches and relaxes is maddening. "Go on, then." 

Antti doesn't even have a response, just nudges Kari to turn over, to get on his knees, which he does with a little shrug. Kari's loose, stretched out by Antti's fingers, and there's no resistance when he slides in. Antti fucks hard, and he's too consumed by his own need to get off, diving deeper into Kari's wet heat that he doesn't really know how long he takes, arms braced around Kari's solid body until he finishes with the wherewithal to pull out, to splatter his release all over Kari's back. He only takes a moment, really, to come down from the orgasm, to rest his cock on Kari's ass, and he thinks it's courtesy to reach and see how Kari's cock is doing. It's solid and hard and throbbing when Antti wraps a hand around it, and Kari hisses, "Don't." 

"Hm?" and Antti only realizes how sore his throat is when he tries to speak.

Kari's panting a little, and his face is flushed. He says, "Get back to it," and well, fine, if Kari doesn't want his cock touched, it doesn't have to be. 

Antti wonders if he wants to come on his fist, and he must have said it aloud because Kari makes a few choice noises. Antti chuckles. "And that had to be a surprise?" 

"Shut up." 

Antti kisses Kari's shoulder and then moves up to kiss Kari's miffed expression off his face. Moving back down to his ass, Antti spreads Kari's cheeks apart, looking at the puffy mess already there. He pours more lube on Kari's hole, and Kari hisses. 

"Maybe I should have just finished in you," Antti wonders. Kari takes a sharp intake of breath when Antti puts in his blunt fingers, three of them, covered in cool lube. He rocks back into Antti's hand. "It would have been warm." 

Antti adds another for four fingers in, and he takes fingers out, rotates them slightly and then pushes them back in, feeling Kari loosen up for him. Antti just marvels in the idea, and while they don't do this a lot, it has its appeal, opening Kari up with his dick first and working in the mess he spends inside. "Next time, huh?" 

"If this one's good," Kari says, spaced by ragged moans. "We're not there yet." 

Antti would say Kari's cock begs to differ, but he decides not to. He makes soothing noises, almost unaware, and Kari just hisses, "Antti, just fucking move," and that's Antti's cue. 

"More?" He rubs his thumb against the rim, and he can feel Kari taking breaths and pushing back against Antti's hand, so that's answer enough. A minute and more lube, and he feels the stretch around his thumb, around his hand, and he feels the way Kari trembles a little bit around Antti's hand. It's almost enough to slow down, and Kari says, "Hey, don't quit on me now." 

Antti slowly pushes in, saying, 'We're almost there," and by almost he does mean almost, rocking in the rest of his palm. They can both feel it when they're past the widest part of Antti's hand, and Antti doesn't actually know how Kari manages it, but he does. 

"Don't you dare move," Kari says, even as he's trying to breathe deeply. 

"You need a break?" asks Antti, even though there's not much use to having a break at this point. There's sweat on his brow, and his come on Kari's back has to be tacky and dried on his back. He's breathing hard, too. "Fuck, _I_ might need a break." 

Kari laughs at him, more a wheeze than anything. "Well, if you need one." 

Antti moves up, gingerly, carefully trying not to move his hand too much, and Kari leans back, curving his spine in a benefit of goalie flexibility. They kiss, and Antti feels like Kari's taking the air from his lungs, and the only thing that Kari says when they finish is, "Okay, slowly." 

There's really nothing like Kari's ass clenching around his fist, so he curls his fingers together, slowly, making a fist. Antti doesn't know where to watch, the sheer strain and tightness around his hand or the way Kari's shoulders sheen with sweat. Kari moans into the pillow, and Antti wants to see how much more he could take. He's taken so much, and there's still so much potential. Antti takes a sharp breath, doesn't even realize it when he says, "Fuck, you could take more than this if I gave it to you, couldn't you?" and it already seems so much; Antti's fingers are long, and still. 

Kari makes a sound that's not a denial. 

"Out?" asks Antti. 

"In," and there's a hint of challenge, like he can't believe Antti would just stop there. 

Antti lets out a heavy breath and rests his other hand across Kari's lower back. He presses in, and Kari takes Antti's wrist before he starts pulling back up. The moans deepen before Antti does much more, and Antti knows when Kari's close by now. He stops moving, just says, "You want it? Take it." 

"Fuck you," he says, but he manages, somehow, to push back, his ass moving up Antti's wrist a centimeter and back. It's mesmerizing. When Kari comes, he comes for what seems like forever, riding out the aftershocks on Antti's fist, with a long, low moan. 

Antti lets him enjoy his orgasm for a minute. This part's nice, too, if he wanted to admit it. There's no sense of urgency left, just the image of Kari taking everything. Kari mutters someting incomprehensible. Antti waits another minute before before saying, "Okay, breathe," to signal that he's pulling out. He kisses a small patch of skin on Kari's back, and he pulls his fist out, hitting nerves along the way that has Kari cursing in a shout. 

Antti's hand is soaked with slick, and he's only just aware of the sweat dripping down his neck. He grips Kari's thigh, feeling the tensed muscle there. "That good enough?" 

They're still breathing hard, and he really doesn't expect an answer, but Kari grumbles something inaudible and manages to move onto his side. There's not so much a wet spot as wet splatters on the sheets from everything. 

"You want first shower?" He probably should, considering. 

"Can I walk is the question." Kari turns his face into one of the pillows, hair spiking up over it. 

Antti can't be blamed if he's a little smug, but Kari's asleep before he can think of a good response to that. He decides to clean Kari up a little bit, careful to avoid where he's most sensitive, and then he goes to take a shower.


	3. Tyler Pitlick & Mike Smith, Phoenix, 2013

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recurring trend throughout this collection: score on a goalie five-hole, and it's basically a note to the goalie that you want in their five-hole. Here's [Pitlick's first goal](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1WVpou0UsVE).
> 
> We're getting back to the obscure pairings again. I don't care.

Tyler scores his first NHL goal in Phoenix. He won't forget it. At the end of the first period, it's 1-0, and the guys are all razzing him about it, and he's sure he's glowing or something equally stupid. It would have been nice to _win a game_ , though. 

There's some noise outside in the hallway, and it's hard to tell what it might be, since it could be anything from Hallsy doing something hilarious to Gags being Gags. When there's a knock on the door, Tyler expects it to just be Fers with a kind word or something. Nuge chills out on his bed, kicking his shoes off, asking, "Hey, do you know where I left my earbuds?" 

Tyler shrugs, but he goes to open the door. 

It's Mike Smith. With a six-pack in his hand, like some sort of maniac with a peace offering. 

"Um," Tyler says. In the hallway, he can feel so many people _looking his way_ and jeering, a bit, but Smith looks over his shoulder and it stops, at least. He's not quite sure why Smith would be here. His team won, even. 

"Who's that?" Nuge barely looks up from his phone. 

Smith rolls his shoulders, and says, "You gonna invite me in, kid? I'm not a vampire, but where are your manners?" 

"Right," Tyler says, and he motions vaguely. It's not like he's going to kill him for scoring on him, right? Tyler looks to Nuge for any help, any at all, and Nuge widens his eyes. 

"I'm, uh, gonna go," Nuge stammers. "You, uh, you go do whatever." And he books it out of there like Tyler's suddenly turned into a snake, closing the door behind him. 

"What was that about?" Tyler asks, and then he appends, "Why are you here?" 

Smith raises an eyebrow. "You're a rookie," he says, and well, that's true. He sets the beer down on the bureau and pops one. "You old enough to drink?" 

"Yes." 

"Just in Canada?"

"Here, too," and Tyler feels so scrutinized. He feels a flush coming up to his face. "But why are you here?" 

Smith shrugs, says, "Help yourself to the beer then. But I'll tell you, no one goes five hole without at least hoping to get into the five hole, if you get me, not in this league." 

Tyler sits down his bed and puts his face into his hands. "I, uh--that's real?" That seemed like one of the hockey things that was a joke; Smith leaning on the furniture in Tyler's hotel room tells him _no, it isn't_. 

"I already did the walk of shame," Smith points out, and he cards a hand through his mass of curls. Tyler can safely say that he has a sick flow. "But I can leave the beer, if you want. I wouldn't be here if I didn't want to." 

Tyler thinks about it. His dick pretty much says yes, why the hell would he turn down sex, and his brain says that he's going to get chirped to hell for it anyway. He nods, says, "Alright, um, what do I?" 

Smith sits down on the bed next to him. "I'm pretty sure you know how to use your dick, right?" He flashes a toothy smile, and Tyler gives a nervous smile back. Smith downs the rest of his beer, and Tyler thinks this is the moment to have one of those himself.

They strip in silence, but he can see Smith looking him up and down and wonders if he'd be here if the Yotes hadn't won, if this is like, some perk of being a goalie. Smith makes a small noise, maybe of approval, and Tyler's dick is getting hard, at least. Smith catches his eye, and then he sprawls out on the bed, long goalie-limbs everywhere, legs spread so far that Tyler's impressed. 

Smith huffs. "You want to see me stretch?" 

Tyler's been in a state of confused arousal for a while, so he nods, and he says, "Uh, goalies are bendy. It's kind of hot," like Smith doesn't know, like that isn't half the reason that he's _here_ to get fucked by _Tyler_. Of all the things to happen in the NHL, this is possibly the most unbelievable. Smith makes a sound, ends up doing some yoga poses, Tyler thinks, and Tyler strokes his cock to the sight of Smith's round ass in the air.

There's a certain economy of motion that Smith has, and Tyler doesn't know if it's like, a goalie thing or a Mike Smith thing, but it's hot. He's spread out on the bed, mostly on all fours, and Smith's ridiculous flow is over his shoulders, and Tyler climbs over on the bed. He reaches out to touch Smith's skin, move down towards his thighs. He should be able to touch it, right? It'd be kind of difficult if he wasn't. Smith just laughs into the sheets. "I'm not made of glass, kid." Tyler digs in his fingers into the meat of Smith's ass more, rubs his dick between his cheeks, moves one hand up to grab a chunk of Smith's hair. Smith lets out a small gasp. 

Tyler's probably a little smug when he says, "Flow like this is good for that, huh?" and he tugs again, and Smith makes a choked moan that gets Tyler really hard. Tyler rubs against Smith's ass some more, and Smith isn't getting pinned down anymore than he lets Tyler. There's only the sound of skin on skin, and the friction is good, but not enough, and Smith hisses, "Go fucking get a rubber" forcefully enough that Tyler goes and grabs the one he keeps in his wallet. 

He rolls it down over his dick as fast as he can, but he feels clumsy and slow, and Tyler feels judged by the silence and then by the unmistakable sound of Smith jerking himself off while waiting for Tyler to get on with it. Tyler moves back over when he manages to finally roll the condom on. The bed moves under his weight, and then he wonders if they need like, lube or anything more besides the lube on the condom already. He freezes a bit, wondering what to do, even as he rubs circles around Smith's left nipple. 

Smith laughs. "Next time you go five hole on a goalie? Make sure you have lube. More than spit at least. Not everyone cares to be prepared." He pauses. "Well, some people like it rough." 

Tyler wonders what the hell that means until Smith stops jerking off, and he reaches back. Tyler gives him a little space, and one of Smith's long fingers just sinks into his asshole. He lets out a small moan as it comes in and out. 

"Oh," Tyler says, and he's a little mesmerized. Smith looks over his shoulder and smirks, and he puts his hand away. 

"Can you aim for the five-hole, kid?" he teases, and Tyler still feels his face flame up redder than the Yotes' uniforms. Tyler grabs his ass again, and he puts his thumbs on the rim of Smith's hole and presses in, and they both--they _both_ slide in so smoothly, with a little wet sound that Tyler feels like his dick is about to explode just feeling the warmth of Smith around him. He takes a deep breath, and this is the perfect moment to line up his dick with Smith's hole, and Smith makes a little impatient sound when Tyler takes his thumbs out. 

"Finally," Smith draws out, as the tip of Tyler's cock enters him. It's so easy to rock forward; Smith's so damn slick inside, and Tyler keeps chasing the friction, and then he has one hand in Smith's hair and the other in the middle of his back as he just thrusts in and out. He speeds up, almost brutal, when he hits a spot that has Smith make a high pitched keen, and he only seems to get louder every time Tyler pulls on his hair. 

A small part of Tyler's mind thinks about people hearing them, but the other parts of him didn't care, they just kept going, kept a grip in Smith's hair, and kept thrusting into him. Tyler's orgasm builds as he keeps fucking Smith, now clenching around Tyler's dick, and his hips stutter, and even as he reaches his peak, Tyler doesn't think he stops completely, just little thrusts to ride it out. Smith pants hard beneath Tyler. 

"Fuck, you young guys," he says, out of breath. 

"That's what you came here for, right?" And Tyler has to toss him a grin. 

"You're right about that." Smith shrugs, rolls his shoulders. "The NHL is a great place to be." 

Tyler hears Smith shifting, moving, but he's already asleep by the time Smith's out the door. 

 

Nuge pokes his head in the morning. "Hey, Pitty, breakfast?" 

Tyler rubs the sleep out from his eyes, stifling a yawn. "Yeah, I'll be down. Where'd you go?" 

"Fers was nice and took me in." Nuge narrows his eyes, but he doesn't say anything too disparaging and he takes Tyler down to where he gets a lot of knowing looks and leers.


	4. Henrik Lundqvist & Patrice Bergeron, 2018, New York

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [a goal](https://www.nhl.com/bruins/video/bergerons-five-hole-wrist-shot/t-277437088/c-57476203)

Patrice gets texted an address after the game. He finds it after he showers and towels off. 

It's a nice hotel room, a little away from where the Bruins are staying. He smoothens the breast pocket of his suit. Maybe he's overdressed, but this is _Lundqvist_. Patrice raps on the door, and Henrik Lundqvist is not one of those goalies you see head out after get scored on, but he opens the door when Patrice knocks, so at least Patrice didn't get spammed into walking into a drug deal

"I didn't think you did this sort of thing," Patrice observes, a little nosy. It's a win for the Bruins, even, and well, he's the enemy. He didn't even have to answer, but he did, and Patrice is here. 

Lundqvist puts on a smile, says, "Now, does a gentleman kiss and tell?" and he waves Patrice into the hotel room. He's impeccably stylish, as always, even casual like this, in a sweater that was probably handknit in some cold mountainside and some dark jeans. 

"Is that your game suit?" he asks. 

Patrice shrugs. "It is." 

The expression he makes is scrutinizing, but not overly negative. "It works for you."

"Thanks." Though, if Patrice knew that this would become a fashion session, maybe he would have blocked out time for that. Patrice takes a seat on the couch in the suit, all modern white and more comfortable than the sharp corners implied. 

"When's your flight out?" Lundqvist asks, casual. He pours himself a drink, and he wordlessly offers one to Patrice. 

"In the morning." They have an off day back home after it, so really, he has all the time he wants, so long as he catches a flight back. He'll get some worried phonecalls if he does miss the flight, so he aims not to. "I'm not worried." 

This part is possibly the awkward part, but there's lube and condoms on the night stand, and well, they know what they're both here for. A part of Patrice wonders if he'd just call someone else up if Patrice didn't show. 

So Patrice says, "Some goalies are into some weird shit," and that isn't a complaint, Patrice thinks, just that well, goalies are weird and some of them have sex things. Really, some of them do, and while Patrice has never been confronted with something he couldn't handle, there's always a chance that Lundqvist is into some really, really weird things, and _that's_ why no one ever talks about him. 

"Oh, and you'd know?" 

"A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell," Patrice says, flashing a smile, and they both laugh. 

 

It's pretty well known around the league that Lundqvist pretty much has it all: looks, style, and a big dick. Patrice usually isn't a dick man, but it's pretty damn impressive. He tries not to stare, but honestly, it's impressive. He takes a solid moment to forget about comparing his own dick size to it, for his own sanity. 

He acts like he's used to it. He probably is. "Are you just going to stare at it?" 

"Maybe." It might be little rude, but Lundqvist stretches, all long tanned limbs against the hotel sheets, almost like a cat, and he's close enough that Patrice could grab him, if he wanted to. r

"I think that's what confuses a lot of us," he says, and Patrice knows he means Europeans, coming over and hitting the North American game. "That you expect goalies to be weird, and also by weird, you mean: 'likes to get fucked'. " 

"If you don't, why am I here?" Patrice is sure there's loads of guys who would take that offer, but that's not how the thing works. 

"I didn't say that." He shrugs, rolls his shoulders casually. He leans back against the pillows, resting his back against the black headboard. His hand loosely circles around his dick

Patrice meets Lundqvist's eyes, and he only asks, "You want me to say anything, or just watch?" 

"Whatever." He smiles again, something that's halfway to a media smile for the cameras, but maybe that's just for show. He takes a deep breath, and then, with Patrice's eyes on him, he starts stroking his cock at a _brutal_ pace, one hand at the base and one hand on his shaft, bringing his cock to full hardness. 

Patrice bites his lip. That was quick. He can only say, "You like it rough?" mindlessly, and well, that's a real possibility. 

There's a little sound from the back of his throat in response. Hank keeps going with a pace that Patrice thinks could be called _chafing_ and huffs. He stops to spit in his hand. Patrick can't help but focus on the way that his wrist moves, and the flex of his inner thighs as he spreads his legs a little wider and keeps going. Impressively. 

Patrice doesn't know if he can look away. His dick doesn't know whether to wince or to enjoy the show, but it is a show, and of course Hank Lundqvist has to have good stamina, too. It's a surprise when he finishes; Hank just luxuriates in the moment, and Patrice admires the sweat sheening on his abs. 

Patrice lets out a sigh he didn't know he was holding. 

Lundqvist quirks an eyebrow at him. He takes his time cleaning himself up, as he casually asks, "Is this good?" 

It takes a small moment before Patrice's brain understands that, but he purses his lips and thinks about it. He takes his dick out of his pants, even, and he says, "Whenever you're ready." 

He shouldn't flush a bit at Lundqvist scrutinizing his dick, but he does. 

Prep isn't a big deal. Patrice finds a condom, and he leaves Lundqvist to open himself up to whatever degree he wants. 

When he presses in, Patrice swears he can feel Lundqvist teeth on his skin, but the thought's gone as he starts diving in as hard as he can. The pace is good, Patrice thinks, even if the angle means his dick slips out a couple of times, as he fucks into Lundqvist. 

"How'd you get the shot in if you can't even aim your dick." He laughs about it, even as Patrice fixes the problem and starts again. He grips Patrice's shoulders tight enough that Patrice knows there's going to be marks. He doesn't know if it'd be better or not if everyone else chirps him for it. 

Lundqvist is sweaty and still a little oversensitive where his dick is between them, but he doesn't say anything when Patrice is in, balls-deep, and grinds out his orgasm.


	5. Anze Kopitar & Jonathan Quick, 2018, Los Angeles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because post-sweep, some comfort porn should be a thing.

Jon wants to go home and sleep for about three years. He doesn't even have to tell anyone. None of them look him in the eye when they pack up. It hurts. He feels a hand on his shoulder, and he's ready to lash at whoever it is, but it's only Anze, and well, Anze leans into Jon's ear and says, "Let me take you home." 

They got swept. At home. It fucking sucks. 

Anze doesn't say any of this, and he lets Jon sulk as much as he needs to. Well, according to Anze, that lasts until Jon stays in his bath for too long. 

"Are you drowning in there?" 

The water's long been cooled, and maybe Jon is more pruney than he should be and the smell of the rink has been soaked in rather than washed away, but he takes a deep breath. 

"Maybe," and his voice even sounds normal. Jon doesn't even know what time it has to be, but he eventually leaves the water, even if Anze has to stand in the doorway as Jon finds a towel and changes into some clothes. 

"Sleep some of it off, Quickie." 

Jon sighs, and he leaves a damp trail of water on his floor. They've gone through a lot of losses together, and they've gone through a lot of wins, so he shouldn't be surprised when Anze hugs him close and says, "We should have been fucking better than that," and it's almost an apology, breaking the captainly calm. "For you." 

Jon can't help but agree, but he doesn't _say_ that. Anze deserves to have his little sulk too, and he doesn't say that either. He half-jokes, "Make it up to me." 

He says, "Jon," softly, and Jon's there, ready to meet him. Anze takes him to bed. That's not a surprise either. 

In the bedroom, Anze pins Jon down, kissing down his back, through the number on his shirt. Jon blows hot air across his pillow. Anze's breath ends up hot against Jon's neck, and he asks, "This too slow for you?" even as he slides a hand under Jon's shirt to trail his fingers across Jon's abs and to cup one of his pecs. 

"I think, maybe." Jon doesn't get much _slow_ during the season. There's not enough lulls for it, not enough times where he can savor it. He manages to sigh, and it's mostly content as Anze runs a thumb over Jon's nipple. 

"Let me," Anze says, and he trails his hand back down Jon's chest, brushing over the trail of fine hair under his belly button. Jon lifts his hips up a litte, and Anze kisses behind his ear, saying, "Don't worry about it. Just let me take care of you." 

A little part of Jon wonders what he means, exactly, but the rest of him is content is lie down and let Anze. He gets Jon to lean against him, Jon's back to Anze's front, both of them mostly on their sides, and Anze dips his hand into Jon's pants. 

Jon gasps into the room, and Anze murmurs something in his ear, maybe nonsense, maybe a language Jon doesn't know at all. Anze's hand is sure and steady around Jon's cock, and he moves back and forth at a moderate pace. He picks up speed when Jon bucks into Anze's hand, and his other hand moves to steady Jon's thigh, feeling up the muscle there. 

It builds up as a low heat in the pit of Jon's stomach, and he feels pleasantly wrung out by Anze when his orgasm takes him, and the world goes fuzzy around the edges. Jon says something, but his own ears only make half of it out. 

Anze pulls his hand out of Jon's pants, and Jon doesn't even care he came in his clothes right now. 

There's a filthy slurp as Anze licks Jon's come from his fingers, and Jon chuckles, even as he feels his face flush red. "You know, you could have just sucked my dick for that." He wouldn't have said no, at all, to seeing that: Anze flush against his pubic hair, sucking Jon down like he was dying for air. Jon's mouth goes a little dry. 

"Next round," Anze says, nonchalant, and he starts working at pushing Jon's pants down. Anze's hard against Jon, impossible to ignore, and Jon's shoulders tense. Anze mouths at Jon's shouderblade, through his shirt. It seems like minutes before Anze says, "You want me to wait to suck your dick?" 

Jon shakes his head. Anze's dick doesn't seem to be softening any time soon, and also, "I thought you were going to pin me down and fuck me." 

Anze laughs, and he disentangles from Jon enough to move to kiss him. Jon tastes himself in Anze's mouth, and he doesn't quite want to let him go. Anze leans into the kiss, lets Jon take as much as he wants, and Jon feels like he might be drunk on this feeling. When they break apart, they meet eyes, and Anze pushes Jon down as gently as he can, running his hands in smooth circles under Jon's shirt, and he leans over, making another dip in the bed as he reaches for supplies in the nightstand. 

Prep is slow and languid; Anze moves his hands all over Jon's ass, and the lube is warm when he feels Anze circle his hole with his fingers. Jon almost thinks he can drift off like this, except even when Anze is careful entering Jon, he still nips at Jon's ear. 

He goes slow, slow enough that Jon wonders how fucking hard he really is. Anze breathes heavily, and Jon takes a moment to find out that he's breathing with him. Anze rocks in slow until he finds a rhythm, finds the sounds he likes pulling from Jon, and Jon basks in all the sensations until Anze's thrusts get sloppier and unfocused. 

Anze finishes with a groan, and there's nothing but the sound of them around each other. 

Jon doesn't know how long they stay like that, only that later, Anze's hot breath over Jon's dick is a question, and Jon can only ask, "Are you waiting for something?" 

Anze flashes a smile that has Jon's stomach doing a little flip, and he doesn't wait any more.


End file.
